


The Clang of the Hammer

by write_in_ice



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Blacksmithing, F/M, Gen, M/M, Priests, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_in_ice/pseuds/write_in_ice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is a blacksmith in a small village, hiding from his past. Charles is an eccentric priest, travelling across the land in search of followers. What happens when their paths cross?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The horseshoe sizzled as Erik plunged it into the water, sending steam into the air. He wiped the sweat from his brow and waited as the red hot metal dimmed and hardened. When it was cool enough, he pulled it from the bucket and eyed it closely. _Good_ , he thought, _but he had done better_. The edges were skewed and uneven but an untrained eye would never notice. Still, it irked him as he placed it on the pile with all the rest. He wanted perfection. What infuriated him more was that he knew he could have it. With a simple thought, he could bend the iron to his will. With the wave of his hand, he could turn raw metal into brilliant works of art or perfect agents of war. He could use his gift to make anything—but not while they watched.

He brought his hammer down hard on his anvil, sending sparks flying into the smoky air. A sad smile crossed his lips as he watched the villagers from his cramped little shop. They all nodded politely when their paths crossed but Erik knew they feared him. They’d let him stay when he wandered into the village with nothing but a blade and a hammer. They’d even given him a place to work when they realized his talent, but he heard the whispers and felt their eyes. He hit the metal again, letting the sound ring out into the dusk. They all scurried about like insects trying to finish the day’s work before the darkness set in. Soon they would light their candles and lock their doors. The streets would be quiet, empty. In the solitude of the night, Erik could do his work without hindrance. Without restraint.

He set down his hammer and rubbed his shoulder as the last of them settled in for the night. He was alone again, with only the begging cats and stray bitches to keep him company— and the strays couldn’t speak of the ungodliness they saw in the darkness. Erik stoked his fire so the glowing embers crackled with flickering light. He took a breath before he focussed on a slab of unshaped steel. With little effort, it rose into the air, hovering at Erik’s eye-line. The raw metal bubbled and plied as easily as baker’s dough. With a thought, it thinned and stretched.  It molded and began to take shape. The top rounded and gleamed in the light. The sides curved with elegant perfection.  There were no seams to crack or warp. An old hound watched as Erik plucked his creation from the air and turned it over in his hands. The helmet was light, yes, but Erik knew how to manipulate the metal so it was strong. He had made hundreds of helmets in his lifetime. What took others days, took him mere moments. Erik knew the man who would wear this helmet and he would never be content with something so plain. With a wave of his hand, he raised a thin border around the edges. He pulled gold and silver bands from his pocket and with a thought wove in a delicate pattern of filigree around the edges.  When he reached the pointed peak in the centre of the forehead, the gold thinned into a small diamond-shaped shield. Silver wrapped around it and took the shape of small horns on either side. Erik smiled, and ran his thumb across the decoration. It was sharp like the edge of a blade. He brought his thumb to his lips and tasted blood. _Perfect._ The smith slipped the beautiful piece of armour onto his head, and for a moment he felt like a king.

_Help me._

Erik’s eyes widen as the voice filled his head. Who was there? Who had seen him? He took off the helmet but fumbled as he heard the voice again. The helmet clanked to the floor and rolled against a pile of straw.

_The gates. Please. The gates._

Erik ran out into the street but found it empty and black. He had heard someone. He knew he had and if they knew his secret it would be his life.

 _Please._ He heard again. _Hurry._

He looked around frantically, only stopping when his eyes fell on the town gates. There was a flicker in the distance. Deep in his mind he heard a sigh. _Yes._

 _I’m going mad_ , he thought. What other explanation was there? Still, he made his way towards the edge of the village. Cautiously he stepped between the stone pillars and the iron gates. A torch flickered in the middle of the mud road. Beside it, a cart lay on its side. Marauders, maybe. The reigns looked like they’d been cut and the horses were nowhere in sight. The back wheel was broken; the axel bent.  A few moments of work and it would be better than new. He could sell it for a good price or melt it down and take the iron and steel. As he pondered, the voice rang in his ears again. It was different this time. Solid. Ragged. Real.

Erik’s back stiffened. “Show yourself.” 

“Here.” The voice croaked. “Please. The wagon.”

Erik refused to move. The gates stood for a reason. The outer lands were rough and rugged and Erik knew firsthand of the people who lurked in the darkness.

“Please...” the voice offered again. He could feel the voice swim in his brain, touching memories...but that couldn’t be. He stumbled as the ache of it overwhelmed him, dropping to his knees as he rounded the wagon. A man lay pinned beneath the wheel.  His soft cheek was pressed against the mud and his chest heaved with every breath. Light brown hair hung across his face. A collar fit tightly around his neck. His lips were turned up into a smile.

Erik’s eyes watered. “Are you a demon?”

“No, my brother, I am a friend...and you have found me.”


	2. Visitors on the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik helps from his mishap. They are found by soldiers on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look a second chapter!!

Erik scowled. “I am not your brother, priest.”

There was venom in the last word, but the priest did not flinch. Instead, the trapped man stared up at him with kind blue eyes. Erik had never seen such a colour. Flecks of azure mingled with cerulean and cobalt. The man’s thick lashes were wet with tears and Erik could see the pain straining his face.  Still, the smile stayed.

 “We are all brothers.”

 “I believe your fall has rattled your mind.”

Erik touched the side of the cart. A dozen men could flip it easily enough, but a single man would scarcely make it budge. He grunted for effect. “The cart is too heavy. I will not be able to hold it for long.”

 “I’m sure you will manage well enough. I have faith.”

 “Faith has not done you well so far.”

With gritted teeth, Erik gripped the wheel and pushed. His muscles tensed and his shoulders and back burned from the weight. His legs shook but the cart barely moved. The priest clawed at the ground, trying to pull himself free, but he struggled in futility. Erik’s own body was beginning to fail under the strain. He took a breath and closed his eyes, letting himself feel the power and strength of the steel. The weight vanished as his gift took over, but he kept his hands clutched around the wheel to mimic it. He had spent most of his life hiding what he truly was. It was a farce he knew well.  Inch by inch, the cart hovered, relieving the pressure on the priest’s legs.

“Move, now.”

The priest obeyed, stifling a scream as he dragged his battered legs from the cart’s path. When Erik was sure the man was out of harm’s way, he let the wagon fall. The wheels dug deep into the mud.

“Thank you, my friend.”

 “I’m not your friend.”  Erik wiped his hands on his shirt. The sound of hooves in the darkness sent chills up his neck. They were coming closer and quickly. “Now find your feet, priest. We do not want to be here when the riders arrive.” 

“I fear that is easier said. I do not think...” The man grimaced and his face paled as he shifted his weight. As Erik neared, he could see the blood seeping through the fabric of his trouser.  

“Broken?” he asked kneeling. The priest winced as Erik slid his hand beneath his calf.

His calloused hands moved gently up one leg and then the other, pressing and plying until the stranger stifled a scream. Erik watch sweat bead on the man’s forehead and his cheeks redden as his thumb neared the bloodied gash. He was surprised when the priest’s hand gripped his shoulder. His chin tipped back, letting his brown hair fall against his neck, as a gasp fled from his lips. Erik released his grip and felt the man’s fingers relax. Slowly, the man slunk forward and rested his head against Erik’s chest.

 _A peculiar priest,_ Erik thought. The blacksmith held no love for men of god. Whatever they spouted turned to hate and disgust and ended in blood. Each and every one he had met was either a liar, a letch, or a lemming and Erik had learned years ago that it was best to keep his distance. Still, something about this man intrigued him and he could not be sure what. Instinctively he touched the man’s back. He could hear the man’s breath slow and calm.

“The left is bruised but not broken, but I fear the right will cause you trouble. Lean on me. We must get you into town.”

“Do not move.” The voiced boomed in the darkness and Erik looked up as a tall man, clad in armour dismounted his horse. Two others followed his lead and stepped forward. The priest began to speak but Erik put his finger to his lips.

“They are not here for excuses, priest, only blood, and I don’t mean for them to take it.”

“Run, leave me, my friend. You have no reason to fight.”

“I have every reason.” Erik stood and faced them as the leader drew his sword. Even in the darkness Erik could see the sharp edge of the blade. His shield was all too familiar—the ornate double ‘S’ still boiled his blood. He didn’t recognize the man, but it didn’t matter. They were all the same and they all would pay for the crimes of their leader.

“Drop your weapons.”

“I am unarmed.” Erik’s fingers twitched and he licked his lips.

“You are outside the town gates and in breach of Lord Shaw’s curfew. Do you know the penalty for your crimes?”

“Oh yes.” He took a step forward. “You wish to take your brands to our skin. To mark us as deviants. To use us as a symbol of your master’s power and control. If we resist, you will try to break us. Take everything we hold dear and slowly let us rot in what your master calls justice.”

“Precisely. Will you come willingly?”

“No.” The smith rolled up his sleeve and turned his wrist to the soldiers. The mark was old but distinct, a brand, blistered and blackened. “Never again.”

“So be it. Men?” The two soldiers move forward on their leader’s command. “I have given you fair warning.”

Erik sneered. “There is nothing fair about this fight.”

His movements were as quick as the slice of a blade. He could feel the steel coming closer, inches from his skin, and yet he knew the point will never touch. The vibration moved through him as he ducked and weaved. His fingers tingled as his power took hold. With a look, the first soldier fell to the dirt and his sword slipped from his hands. In a flash, Erik has it, swinging with precision. Blade met blade only once before Erik’s  bit into flesh. He pressed hard, and twisted before kicking the man to the ground.

He turned as the leader approaches, anger flaring in his eyes. As he raised his sword, Erik twitched his hand. The heavy chain of his suit pull down and in an instant he was on his back. His eyes were wide as he felt his knife slide from his belt.

“What are you?”

“I am what your people have made me.” Slowly he sliced the blade across the man’s throat, letting the gurgle of death ring in his ears. His eyes darted to the final soldier. His chest heaved with fear as Erik bears down on him.

“I have seen your master’s justice. Now you will see mine.”

“My friend, stop. Please.” The priest’s voice was calm.

“Stay out of this.”

“He is unarmed. Look at him. He is only a boy.”

“Boys are only boys for so long.” He watched as the boy quivered. His eyes were wet and his lips trembled. For a moment, Erik remembered the face of another young man, one he saw in pools and polished glass. A frightened boy, a boy without hope. Erik shook the thoughts from his head. “No. You will see what it is to follow.”

“Boy!” The priest’s shout made them both turn. The priest placed his hand on his temple and looked into the soldier’s eyes.

“You will leave from here boy, and never come back to this place. You will forget out faces and ever speak of this to anyone. You will never again take up a sword against an innocent. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, priest.”

“You will not return to your master and will never again join an unjust cause.”

“Yes, priest.”

“Go now, before my friend ends you.”

Erik could do nothing but watch as the boy stood and began to run. Finally, he looked back at the priest with a scowl.

“You have damned us both. When he goes to them they will send more and seek out our faces.”

“The boy will not return to them. I am a persuasive man. There was no need to kill. They could have been reasoned with.”

“Your world is not mine. I have seen them butcher women, children. What makes you think you are so swaying?”

“I stopped you from killing the boy.” Erik looked the man up and down and stopped when their eyes met. “All men have their demons, my friend, but there is good in them too.”

 “You are a foolish man, priest.”

“Perhaps, and please, call me Charles, Charles Xavier.”


End file.
